I’m writing to you with a lot of pain in my heart. I know you adore my metaphorical sentences, and how I compare quotidian things to our love. But if I were to use a metaphorical passage today, I’ll say that we find ourselves in a shadowy realm where affection dissipates, and it’s a struggle to keep those embers of yesterday glowing.
You may not feel that way, since you’ve told me so often that you look forward to coming home to me after your service, but I do. I’ve argued with myself a million times about how to proceed when my love for you has grown cold, and I’ve finally found the answer. I’ve gotten myself another man.
John, you were my thin guy phase, and your slender frame gave me so much pleasure. I remember when I first met you outside that thrift store, and something about those stonewashed jeans and tank top and the bony frame that wore them made me need you. And damn! I didn’t miss a step. I did everything I could to earn your trust and affection, and I remember the times we ate hotdogs and watched the cars passing by.
Anyhow, I digress. I’m sorry, but I’m in my fat man phase now, and I’ve met Arnold, a roly-poly brute who eats triple decker burgers and tops it off with a milkshake and sundae. He waddles, grunts and farts, and I can’t get enough of him! Hell, I even love the smell of his farts. He hardly showers and works in construction. John, he’s everything you aren’t.
Arnold’s a dirty, hairy man’s man, and though I have tears in my eyes, I have to admit that you are just a boy. He isn’t passionate or weepy when making love and likes it rough. And I need that John. Damn! I really need those armpit licks and tomato sauce poured. When I was with you, I didn’t even smoke, but now I snort coke off Arnold’s belly button. Everything about him turns me on — from his yellow teeth with gaps in them, to his 80s moustache, to his love for Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Sweet Home Alabama (we’re second cousins by the way), to his addiction to wild boar meat.
So, though I’ll miss the operas you took me to, the roses you bought me, the sonnets you wrote, the books by Dostoevsky you gave me, I need a spit-on-the-floor, don’t-wipe-your-arse-after-using-the-shitter, sit-on-the-porch-with-a-shotgun-and-a-beer hard man. So this is me thanking you for letting me know I need a meaty pawed, double chinned, paunched, lard arse who brings the woman out of me. Please don’t take this hard and hold on to the wonderful memories.
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